And so the panthan moved through the silent streets of the strange city in search of food and drink for the woman he loved.  Men and women looked down upon him from shadowy balconies, but spoke not; and sentinels saw him pass and did not challenge.  Presently from along the avenue before him came the familiar sound of clanking accouterments, the herald of marching warriors, and almost simultaneously he saw upon his right an open doorway dimly lighted from within.  It was the only available place where he might seek to hide from the approaching company, and while he had passed several sentries unquestioned he could scarce hope to escape scrutiny and questioning from a patrol, as he naturally assumed this body of men to be.

Inside the doorway he discovered a passage turning abruptly to the right and almost immediately thereafter to the left.  There was none in sight within and so he stepped cautiously around the second turn the more effectually to be hidden from the street.  Before him stretched a long corridor, dimly lighted like the entrance.  Waiting there he heard the party approach the building, he heard someone at the entrance to his hiding place, and then he heard the door past which he had come slam to.  He laid his hand upon his sword, expecting momentarily to hear footsteps approaching along the corridor; but none came.  He approached the turn and looked around it; the corridor was empty to the closed door.  Whoever had closed it had remained upon the outside.

Turan waited, listening.  He heard no sound.  Then he advanced to the door and placed an ear against it.  All was silence in the street beyond.  A sudden draft must have closed the door, or perhaps it was the duty of the patrol to see to such things.  It was immaterial.  They had evidently passed on and now he would return to the street and continue upon his way.  Somewhere there would be a public fountain where he could obtain water, and the chance of food lay in the strings of dried vegetables and meat which hung before the doorways of nearly every Barsoomian home of the poorer classes that he had ever seen.  It was this district he was seeking, and it was for this reason his search had led him away from the main gate of the city which he knew would not be located in a poor district.

He attempted to open the door only to find that it resisted his every effort—­it was locked upon the outside.  Here indeed was a sorry contretemps.  Turan the panthan scratched his head.  “Fortune frowns upon me,” he murmured; but beyond the door, Fate, in the form of a painted warrior, stood smiling.  Neatly had he tricked the unwary stranger.  The lighted doorway, the marching patrol—­these had been planned and timed to a nicety by the third warrior who had sped ahead of Turan along another avenue, and the stranger had done precisely what the fellow had thought he would do—­no wonder, then, that he smiled.